Maybe the sun cups our faces,
As we linger in the light
Any inch of cold desire dies on our lips.

Our age is evident through our eyes on the world;
Mine, they saw dreams nightly.
Yours never flash in the dark.

A scratch of Paris in the sunlight?
Splintered white chairs, need a coat of paint,
Maybe you'll paint them next weekend,
Squatting in that strange way you do,
Thighs touching calves,
Sweat dewing on your scalp,
Dried paint on your arm--let me scrub it off.

Tonight, sneak where the moon is.
I will be waiting for you, and so will my words.

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.